I wish people would stop telling me to relax, that women in their 50s have babies, that I’m so young, and that I will get pregnant and have a baby. They have nothing to lose with their optimism. I have it all. So when I’m spewing negativity, I want people to say, “You know, you’re right. Your situation sucks, and you may not be able to get pregnant. If that happens, I’m really sorry.” Is that so hard?

Last weekend we celebrated K’s birthday. I let myself relax and really enjoy being unpregnant. For example, we went to a chocolate tasting, and I consumed a significant amount of caffeine, which I would not have done if I was waiting to find out if I was pregnant. We also went to a hot spring and sat in a hot tub that was way too hot for health. Again, I would’ve missed out on that preplanned excursion. I felt good. I felt like I was doing exactly what I should be to prepare for the next go ’round.

I felt even better this week after talking to a fertility specialist. We formulated a plan of how to proceed. And since I was there and hadn’t had my FSH levels checked in a while, we went ahead and did that too.

This morning I learned that my FSH, which had been tested on a couple of other occasions, is fine. It’s my day 3 estradiol level that is too high. This means I was right: my eggs are old and tired. Beyond my years. I always say I’m old and people poo poo me. Well, according to my blood, my egg quality/number is decreased—especially for someone so young. So, if you’re a friend, please do not take my age for granted when I express my worries in the future. I will probably hit you.

What now? Well, we had E2 bank his stuff this morning so we have “him” here even after he leaves for Europe. (He told me this morning that he bought his ticket last night; it took everything in me to bop excitedly with him and not start crying.) The expense of every little step in this new world of fertility clinic makes me realize what a gift we had in a local known donor this whole time. I’m going to have a look at my follicles next week. If there’s any big enough, I’ll get a shot that’ll ovulate me early, since it’ll only be day 9. Then we’ll do a quickie home insemination hours before K and I get on a plane to the Midwest. If the ultrasound shows what my estradiol level suggests, few poor eggs, then we’ll wait until January and bring out the big guns.

Isn’t it interesting how you think you’re going to the next level of a process, just sticking your toes in to test the water, and the next thing you know you’re being dangled from the high-jump diving platform over the deep end?

Riddles:
How many times did I hear that many women get pregnant the cycle after having an HSG?
How many people would assume that, if you’re actively trying to get pregnant, inseminate after an HSG, and miss your period, you’re pregnant?

Now, take both of those numbers and subtract them from themselves.
The result? Zero! The number of pregnancies I’ve had!

Let me explain… We were on a break(!) when we discovered our donor is planning to move away soon. Since we’ve tried so many times unsuccessfully, we decided to have a look inside my stuff to see if there were blockages keeping the sperm from getting to the egg. I was hesitant to get the HSG because I heard it could be painful and because I didn’t want to know if I did have blockages. But, in fact, the test wasn’t horrible and my passages are free and clear. So we inseminate. And inseminate. And… no clear ovulation. No temperature rise. No dark, solid line on the ovulation pee stick. We just kept throwing sperm up there (on his last visit, our donor said I had so much sperm in me I could probably score at a gay bar).

On days 19-21, I had spotting and cramping. I dreaded the period that was to follow because the pain has been so hysterically bad in the recent past and I was due to be either on a plane or at my father’s grave site when it hit. But check this out: the period never came. Like, ever. I don’t only not miss my period, I am very regular (in a short-cycle kinda way). The whole time I was in my hometown, I was sneaking pees on pregnancy tests and feeling a little giddy. The tests kept saying NO, but my lower abdomen felt different (psychosomatic says “what?”). Once I was back home, I began to realize this period wasn’t coming. I wanted to know for sure and right away that I was or wasn’t pregnant so I wouldn’t miss an opportunity to inseminate. My doc ordered a blood test (stat), which confirmed, despite the week of feeling really cool—like a girl with a fairy in her pocket—that I am not pregnant.

So, do it. Inseminate! Had I gotten my period when I was supposed to, I’d be just about to ovulate. The catch? No donor. Still out of town on holiday. I peed on sticks regardless. I saw a couple of lines get close to an LH surge and saw a rise in temperature. All too late.

What the heck? How could a little test mess me up so I skip an ovulation and a period? I know people sometimes skip periods. But not me. Ever!!! Am I done ovulating normally now? Did I embody the youngest and quickest menopause in the history of womankind?

The quandary leaves me spinning (happy sixth night, btw). I feel so out of whack. When I do get another period, what do I do? What timetable do I count on? Should I just find the cash and do an IVF and have twins and be done with all this?

Finally, I had a birthday last week. I was sure, so freakin’ sure, that with my dad’s spirit now fully on the other side where he could put in a good word for a daughter, that I would discover—on my birthday—that the missing period meant I was pregnant. I joked with myself that it would be like going to get your hair cut: You say, “whatever you do, do not give me a short hair cut.” The stylist turns your chair around at the end and says “just what you wanted! a short hair cut!” I made myself a deadline of having a baby by 33 and no later than 35. I thought, the universe is so funny I’ll find out I got pregnant just days before my 35th birthday. Alas, my desperate sense of humor is not shared by mama universe.